


you touch me within and so i (know i could be human once again)

by notcaycepollard



Series: the grace in monsters [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Blood, Dom/sub Undertones, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pining, Restraints, Slow Burn, canon-typical body autonomy trauma, werewolf-typical violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-22 22:49:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7456897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notcaycepollard/pseuds/notcaycepollard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s inevitable, the way it goes. <em>He’s my friend,</em> Steve says, and he is, he is, he must be. Sam’s best friend is Steve, and Steve’s best friend is a werewolf, that’s just how Sam’s life works now.</p><p>But once he realizes he’s attracted to Bucky and Bucky can <em>tell</em>, everything becomes, like, a thousand percent more difficult to negotiate. Sam’s just trying to live his life, that’s all, and he keeps getting confronted by Bucky Barnes in a soft flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up, hair all soft and shiny. Bucky glances over at him and smirks, and this is really very embarrassing, how Sam can’t hide his attraction even if he keeps a totally straight face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you touch me within and so i (know i could be human once again)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [poziomeczka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/poziomeczka/gifts), [Sexonfire24](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sexonfire24/gifts).



> because they encouraged this ENTIRELY on tumblr, good job on inspiring this

The first time Sam sees Bucky, all he can think around the overwhelming terror is _holy shit,_ _I never knew monsters could be beautiful_. The thing that attacks is sleek, all teeth and muscle, and it should be terrible, it should be _wrong_ , the way it’s just human enough to be not human at all. But it’s crouched on the hood of his car, staring straight through the windshield at Steve and Sam, and Sam can’t help but look back. It's got blue eyes, bright and clear. Why does any monster have such _blue eyes_. Then it punches through the glass, grabs Steve by the throat, and Sam’s reacting in adrenaline-filled clarity, scrabbling away. Nat launches herself forward, out of the back seat and into his lap, yanks something away from her neck. A silver chain she wraps around its wrist, just enough that it howls in pain and pulls away, and Sam and Steve and Nat scramble out of the car, take off running.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Sam gasps out, and Natasha pushes him down just in time, claws barely missing his scalp.

“I told you,” she says, “Hydra experiments with the supernatural. They’re making weapons. The Wolf of Winter.”

“That’s no fucking _wolf_ ,” Sam argues, “that-”

“A fairytale,” Nat says, teeth gleaming very sharp in the shadow of their cover spot. “A storybook monster. You know what it is.”

“Fuck,” Sam manages, “ _fuck_ ,” and then it’s on them, and he has no breath to do or say anything except survive.

Later, much later, he sees the file Natasha tracks down, he catches a glimpse of the photo tucked inside, and _oh, he was beautiful long before they ever made him a monster_.

 

It’s inevitable, the way it goes. _He’s my friend_ , Steve says, and he is, he is, he must be. Sam’s best friend is Steve, and Steve’s best friend is a werewolf, that’s just how Sam’s life works now. They track him for two years across Europe until he goes to ground somewhere in Belarus. Resurfaces in Bucharest in the aftermath of a vicious attack that Steve and Sam both know isn’t him, and then Vienna, Zemo using some kind of UV light bomb that triggers a change even though it won’t be full moon for another three weeks.

“It wasn’t me,” Bucky says afterwards, wrists and throat burned from the silver restraints they’d locked around him. “In Vienna, it wasn’t me. I don’t do that anymore.”

“Yeah,” Steve says, “I know, Buck.”

“But the thing is,” Bucky says, leaning forward, hair falling into his face, and even through the dirty hair and the tiredness in his face, Sam can see those eyes, bright blue as ever. “The thing is. Hydra tried to make more of me. Put people in the cell with me, forced a change. I bit every one of ‘em, but they never lived more than a couple years. It’s too rough on your body, without the serum giving you enough to knit back together every time. But the scientists took my blood, okay, took a lot of it. I dunno what they did with it, after.”

“You think they made it work, finally,” Sam gets out, and Bucky nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “They’re good at that.”

 

When the dust clears, the three of them have a house together like they’re roommates with normal lives or something, if normal means living in a safe house with a Hulk-proof basement level with a 1940s supersoldier and a guy who keeps clogging the shower drain way too often. Bucky is very cautious and very quiet, draws in his shoulders and ducks his head like he’s trying real hard not to be threatening, and the thing is, yeah, he punched through Sam’s windscreen and ripped Sam’s wings to shreds with his claws and all the rest, but Sam can see how frustrated he gets every time Steve treats him like he’s gonna break or anyone else looks at him like he’s a rabid dog about to attack.

“So,” Sam says one morning, sitting down at the table with his bowl of oatmeal, and Bucky flicks him a suspicious look. “You wash your hair with dog shampoo or what, man?” and there’s a brief pause before Bucky snorts with laughter, eyes bright and surprised.

“I dunno,” he says, “you think I ever actually wash it? It doesn’t look like this if you use soap on it, that’s for sure,” and Sam grins. “Anyway,” Bucky adds, “can you tell your family to quit their reunions outside my fucking window? It’s interfering with my beauty sleep.”

“Barnes, there’s no amount of beauty sleep in the world that could fix your face,” Sam says solemnly, and Bucky throws his head back and cackles, mouth full of cereal. It’s disgusting, _he’s_ disgusting, and he’s looking like he’s having the most fun he’s had in weeks or months or, like, decades, which is probably true.

 

They keep it up, this teasing, and Sam watches Bucky relax into it until he's losing that hangdog expression and tightly constrained body language.

“Making steak for dinner,” Sam tells him one afternoon, “I figure you'll want yours raw, right?”

“Oh sure,” Bucky agrees. “I guess making chicken is a bit weird for you nowadays, huh? Given they're your relatives, and all.”

“Nah, I can do chicken if you'd rather. You're not tired of it though? Seems like you woulda got annoyed with all the feathers sticking in your mouth by now.”

“That was _one time_ ,” Bucky sighs without missing a beat, and Steve glances between them like he's not sure whether they're genuinely being terribly mean to each other or what. Bucky's eyes shine with how he's holding in laughter, and Sam shoves him in the thigh, doesn't think about how it's basically like shoving a solid wall of muscle.

“Ugh, something smell like wet dog in here?” Sam asks the next morning when Bucky comes in with his hair still dripping from his shower, and Bucky grins, shakes his head until he's spraying water all over Sam. “Oh god, get off, you're the worst, I hate you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky says, leans down and rubs his wet hair on Sam's cheek, and Sam squirms, pushes him away. Bucky's only got a couple of inches on him, really, but some days that's enough to be annoying.

“Seriously,” he asks, chewing an apple, “what's with the long hair, you really committed to the feral look or just lazy?”

“I like it,” Bucky says, wide-eyed and innocent, “don't you like it, Sam?”

Sam considers Bucky's face for a minute. His hair is sure cleaner than it used to be, warm dark brown with tints of gold here and there, and it's soft, curling into slight waves and wispy little tendrils along Bucky's jawline. He is really unfairly handsome, Sam thinks honestly, and rolls his eyes.

“Nah,” he says, a blatant lie that he knows Bucky knows is a blatant lie, and takes another bite of his apple, watching Bucky the whole time.

 

The first full moon, Bucky gets real quiet the whole day like he can't think about anything else, and Sam watches Steve watching Bucky, the concern clear on his face.

“The basement is secure,” Steve tells him for the third time, “this place was built for Dr Banner. You're sure you're gonna be okay down there?”

“I'll be fine,” Bucky says, mouth a thin line. He doesn't eat dinner, disappears silently away before it's completely dark, and Sam can't help but wonder if he's doing okay.

The next morning, he shows up in the kitchen while Steve's out, as if he's waited for the coast to be clear before appearing, and Sam sucks in a breath when he sees him.

“Holy fuck,” he says before realizing maybe that's rude, but- “Jesus, Barnes, what the hell.”

“I'm fine,” Bucky says tightly, sits down like it hurts to move, and Sam frowns, because he is really, really not fine. There are burns around his wrists and on his throat, and Sam had thought the silver cuffs were a temporary measure, not something Bucky locks on _every goddamn month_.

“I'm getting the first aid kit,” he says firmly, “you need anything? Something to eat?”

“Is there any oatmeal?” Bucky asks. “I get sick to my stomach sometimes, after. Something plain is good.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, “okay, yeah,” and makes a bowl of instant oatmeal in the microwave, slides it down in front of Bucky and goes to grab the kit from the bathroom.

“There's gotta be a better way,” he mutters when he gets back, and Bucky glances up at him through his hair, swallows his oatmeal. He looks a little better, although still like he's been used as a chew toy, and he shakes his head, clears his throat.

“If I'm not restrained I hurt myself,” he explains like it's obvious. “Throw myself at the walls all night, rip my nails out trying to tear my way out. It's better this way.”

“Hydra didn't?”

“They did,” Bucky says. “When I was human. Made me more compliant. Took eighteen months for the burn scars to fade, even with the serum. Times I was changed and not on mission, they wouldn't bother. Just leave me in a silver cage to beat myself against until I passed out.” _Jesus fucking Christ_ , Sam thinks, because this wasn't in the file and Bucky's never volunteered it before now. He wonders if it's because Steve's out, if Bucky's afraid of Steve hearing this and making that face he always makes. Steve's concern for Bucky is overwhelming, sometimes, and Sam gets it if Bucky holds some stuff back just so he's got room to breathe.

“So, Hydra did this to you? The change, I mean?” Sam says as he dabs local anaesthetic cream on Bucky's wrists, and Bucky shakes his head.

“Not exactly,” he says. “The serum, yeah. Steve probably told you?”

“In Azzano,” Sam agrees. “He thought they might have been experimenting on you. But you weren't a, uh, a werewolf, after that.”

“No. The serum made me stronger, faster. Heal quicker too. That's how I survived the fall,” Bucky says softly. “I was hurt, but- not hurt enough to die, probably. Woulda been lucky.”

“But?” Sam asks, because of course there’s a _but_ , and Bucky smiles small and crooked and painful.

“Turns out, where I fell, there was a pack in the woods. I was bleeding, they'd have been able to smell it for miles. By the time Hydra found me, I’d already been bit. Just far enough into the change I was too weak to fight. They dragged me back, threw me in a cell to see what I’d become. See if I’d be _useful_. Sure made a use of me, alright. Who needs men when you’ve got monsters you can turn into weapons.” Sam winces, and Bucky shrugs.

“Okay but seriously, _seriously_ , there must be a better way than this,” he says. “Restraints, fine, if that's what you need, but come on, we'll figure something out. Something that won't burn you, at least.”

“I can't do it by myself, then,” Bucky sighs, and Sam frowns.

“You think Steve wouldn't?” he points out, and that's what happens the next month. Steve goes down to lock Bucky into the thick padded leather restraints, unlocks him the next morning, and when Sam is watching TV that afternoon Bucky sits down next to him. He still moves like all his joints are hurting, but he doesn't have livid burn marks where the silver has branded his skin, and he hasn't bitten right through his lip, so it's probably a good sign.

“Thanks,” he says, voice rough like his throat is raw. “For suggesting it. It's better.”

“Hey,” Sam shrugs, “I'm glad it helps,” and Bucky nods, sips the protein powder shake Steve'd bought after Sam had mentioned the whole ‘bland food’ thing. “You wanna watch a movie, or something?”

“Yeah, okay,” Bucky agrees. “I heard Disney did some pretty cute stuff while I was out causing havoc and starting urban legends.”

“Well, you're not wrong,” Sam says, finds _The Princess and the Frog_ on Netflix since it’s the one his baby cousins like the best, and when Bucky falls asleep with his head on Sam's shoulder, Sam doesn't shrug it off the way he might have any other time. Just pulls a blanket up over Bucky's legs, and rescues the half-full glass of protein shake before it spills everywhere, and turns down the movie a little so Bucky doesn't wake up.

 

A couple of full moons later, Bucky’s already gone downstairs for the night - Steve accompanying him to make sure the restraints are secure, just like always - when Steve gets the call-out.

“Urgent?” Sam asks, and Steve nods, looking distressed. “Hey, I got this. Go.”

“The moon’s already up,” Steve says, “I can’t- fuck, I can’t even tell him where I’m going. If I’m not back by morning, you’ll... “

“Yeah, of course I will,” Sam says, “come on, it’s fine. Go, get out of here, go be a hero.”

“Not that kind of mission,” Steve says, pats Sam on the shoulder as he leaves. Sam goes to bed early, tries not to worry. Steve will be fine. _Bucky_ will be fine.

He wakes up before his alarm, lies in bed trying to will himself back to sleep for twenty minutes before he gives up and takes a longer run than usual. Gets back to the house just as the sun’s coming up, goes to the basement as soon as he’s inside. If it were him, he thinks, he’d want to be out of the restraints as soon as possible.

He knocks at the door, waits for a response. It’s quiet, and he wonders if Bucky is asleep. There’s no window, because it’s not a _prison cell_ and Bucky deserves some privacy in the form of a closed door, but Bucky had insisted on electronic monitoring that’d tell Sam if there was still a threat, so he’s not too worried about quietly opening the door. Bucky stirs on the bed, looks up at him, and Sam catches the surprise turning to fear.

“Sam,” he says, voice rough. Coughs a little. “Where’s Steve?”

“Got called away on mission,” Sam tells him, “don’t worry, he’s fine. Just out saving the world, or something.” Bucky relaxes incrementally, and Sam realizes he’d been afraid for Steve, as if Steve might have been hurt without Bucky around. “Hey, I’m gonna unstrap you, that okay?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says weakly. “Yeah, that. That’s fine.” Sam’s careful as he does it. Isn’t sure what Steve usually does, whether he touches Bucky as he goes, and in the end he just sits down, undoes each strap, doesn’t try and touch Bucky but also doesn’t avoid the way his fingers brush his skin. When he’s got them off Bucky’s wrists, Bucky stretches a little, rubs at one wrist like he’s trying to bring back the circulation.

“They too tight?” Sam asks, getting the ones around his ankles undone, and Bucky shakes his head.

“They gotta be,” he says, “otherwise there’s no point.” Closes his eyes, breathes deeply for a few seconds. Tries to sit up, and Sam sees him waver, catches him with an arm around his shoulders just in time.

“Hey, easy,” Sam murmurs, “come on, Barnes, don’t go pushing it.” Bucky’s t-shirt is damp with sweat, sticking to Sam’s skin, but Sam’s still pretty sweaty himself from his run, so he figures it’s even. Bucky lolls into it, rests his head on Sam’s shoulder for a few seconds. Takes another deep breath, and then makes a soft noise in the back of his throat, buries his face in the crook of Sam’s neck. Sam tenses, can’t help it, it’s fucking _ticklish_ , and Bucky pulls back immediately, flushes bright red.

“Oh Jesus, sorry,” he mutters, “sorry, _fuck_ , I-”

“You’re fine,” Sam says, “you just startled me, is all. I’m ticklish, okay.”

“You are?” Bucky asks, looking up all curious and surprised, and Sam laughs a little, grins at him.

“Yeah, I am. But it’s cool, man. You don’t look like you’re doing so good this morning, so you wanna huff me, be my guest.”

“It’s just,” Bucky says, looking embarrassed, “it’s just, right after the change, like this, I don’t… it’s harder to remember appropriate human reactions. Lot of instinct going on. And you, uh, you smell real good.”

“I’m sweaty as heck,” Sam says, “I ran like ten miles, you think I smell _good_?”

“Yeah,” Bucky admits, “yeah, it… yeah,” and maybe it’s just because he looks about as pale as skim milk, dark circles under his eyes and bruises on his wrists where he must have been tugging at the restraints, but Sam figures he’s due a little comfort.

“Come on, then,” he says. Tilts his head to the side again. “Go ahead.” Bucky looks at him for a minute like he’s not sure, and then leans in again, presses his nose to Sam’s neck and breathes in through his nose and mouth at the same time. He sighs the breath back out, air gusting over Sam’s skin in a way that cools the sweat drying there, and Sam shivers a little, feels Bucky shift closer.

“Can I…” he murmurs, very quiet, and this is already kind of weird so Sam figures it can’t really get weirder.

“Hold on,” he says. Grabs the pillow, props it against the wall and sits back against it, legs stretched out. He’s still got his shoes on, but whatever, they’re gonna put the sheets in the laundry anyway. “Come here,” and Bucky does, crawls up the bed and curls in against Sam, breathing him in like it’s settling him. “You do this with Steve?” Sam asks. Strokes Bucky’s hair a little, feels him slowly relax into it. He hadn’t exactly expected cuddling to be on the table, this morning, but if he’s being honest with himself it’s not like he’s averse to it. Bucky’s still careful, tense and cautious, but Sam kinda likes the way he’s pressing into him.

“No,” Bucky says, his breath hot on Sam’s throat when he speaks. “I think Steve’s afraid to touch me, mornings after. Always looks at me like I might break.”

“But you need it?” Sam says, and drags his fingers a little harder through Bucky’s hair. It’s tangled, sweaty; they both need to shower, but Bucky makes a sound like it feels good.

“I never-” he starts, “I mean, it-” He falls silent for a long minute, hesitates and hesitates and then puts his hand on Sam’s chest, right above his heart. Tightens his fingers in the fabric of his t-shirt. “Nobody’s ever done this. Not when I wake up. Back when- you know, back _then_ , I was just alone, food on the floor if I was lucky, and Steve, he’s gentle but he gives me a lot of space.” He stops like he’s thinking about it, hums almost under his breath. “I like it,” he admits. “It feels… yeah, I like it.”

“You want to take a nap, or something?” Sam asks, and Bucky shrugs.

“You must be hungry,” he says, “and you probably want to shower.”

“It can wait,” Sam shrugs. Bucky sighs like he’s very contented, shoves his face into Sam’s skin a little more. It’s like he’s dragging Sam’s scent over himself, maybe, and it should be weird, Sam should feel _weird_ about it, but Bucky all sleepy and change-dazed, nuzzling into him, it’s. It’s _nice_ , fuck. Sam’s into it. Bucky somehow manages to spread himself out until he’s draped practically on top of Sam, chest to chest, his face still right in the curve of Sam’s neck, and they do nap, drift into a hazy sleep for half an hour or so. Then Bucky jerks awake, eyes wide.

“Steve’s home,” he says, and Sam blinks, because he didn’t know Bucky’s hearing was _that_ good. Shit, he’s really comfortable, and Bucky is very warm. He doesn’t really want to move.

“You want the first shower?” he says, and Bucky shrugs, heavy where he’s still on Sam.

“Up to you,” he says, presses his nose against the spot behind Sam’s ear, and then suddenly his tongue is on Sam’s skin, licking a wet stripe up Sam’s throat. Sam freezes up again, all that’s running through his head is _holy fuck don’t get hard_ , and Bucky goes very still like he’s suddenly realizing what he’s doing. “Oh _fuck_ ,” he mutters, “god, Sam, I’m so sorry, Jesus _Christ_ that’s awkward.”

“More instinct?” Sam asks, and Bucky rolls away, pushing a hand through his hair.

“Yeah, fuck, I- we’ve got Powerade in the fridge, right? I’m guessing I need electrolytes.”

“I taste salty, huh?” Sam teases, and Bucky gets that blush on over his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. “Hey, it’s fine. Seriously. Worse things have happened to me than being licked by a friend of mine, okay.”

“Okay,” Bucky says. “Okay.” He looks a little wary, like Sam will decide it wasn’t okay, but also a hell of a lot better than he did an hour ago, color in his cheeks and sitting up like he’s not about to pass out, so Sam’s gonna chalk it up as a win.

“I’m gonna jump in the shower, okay? You coming up? Get a Powerade, check in with Steve?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says. “Yeah, I’ll do that. Hey, Sam.”

“Hmm?”

“I- thanks. For this. For, uh, waking me up, and… the rest. It helped.”

“Hey, any time,” Sam tells him, and means it. Having Bucky cuddle on him once a month is not exactly a hardship. _Except for the bit where he licked you and you wanted more_ , he thinks in the shower, and closes his eyes, tries to put it out of his head.

 

They do wind up making it a habit, something Steve’s obviously a little perplexed by but also pleased about, like it’s a sign Sam and Bucky are getting on better than they used to. The thing is, Sam thinks, it’s not like they’ve ever actually outright disliked each other, it’s just a dynamic Steve doesn’t quite understand. But he goes down the basement with a Powerade, curls up with Bucky and lets him breathe Sam in, and if Sam makes sure he goes for a run beforehand, well, that’s his own business.

It doesn’t stop them playfully bickering the rest of the time, continuing the jibes and the pranks until Sam knows Steve’s reached eyerolling so hard he might actually pull something. Bucky orders Sam a giant lawn flamingo off Amazon. Sam buys Bucky flea shampoo. Bucky finds a video of a bunch of rubber ducks making a noise like the hordes of hell, sends it to Sam with the comment _are these your friends, pal?_ And then Sam gets back from town one day, grinning, because he’s pretty sure he’s got the best one yet.

“Got you a present,” he tells Bucky, and Bucky looks briefly surprised when Sam throws the pet store bag at his head. He catches it, of course - fucking wolf reflexes - and peers inside. Sam smirks.

“You got me a dog collar,” Bucky says, no tone or inflection in his voice.

“Yeah, man,” Sam agrees. Smirks some more. “With a _name tag_. Got it etched special. I considered ‘Fido’ but I figured I could make it actually useful.” Bucky pulls out the collar, examines the round tag hanging on the front. It’s brushed brass, heavy, double-sided. _BUCKY_ on the front, and on the back, _Call if lost_ , and their emergency cellphone number. The employee had politely asked about Sam’s dog, and he’d made one up on the spot. Golden retriever, yeah, real cute. Dumb as a rock sometimes but enthusiastic enough to make up for it. Now that he thinks about it, he was basically describing Steve. He’s not sure what that means, honestly.

“It’s nice,” Bucky says, still without inflection. Fiddles with the tag a little more, touches his fingers to the leather of the collar. “Soft. Must have been expensive.”

“Oh, you know,” Sam says, off-hand. “Only the best for you.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, “you’re a real pal that way,” and then he reaches up, undoes a couple of buttons, pushes the neckline of his shirt down so he can buckle the dog collar into place. Sam’s mouth goes very dry, because this wasn’t part of the plan at all. Bucky does up the buckle at the nape of his neck, slides a finger underneath the leather and settles it flush against his skin, the tag hanging neatly into the hollow at the base of his throat, and then he _smirks_ right back at Sam as if he’s in on the joke. “What do you think?” he asks. Raises one eyebrow. Holy fucking _shit_ , his shirt is hanging slightly open and the black leather looks so fucking good against his skin and Sam just wants to hook his fingers into it, pull Bucky in. This backfired on him in a major way.

“I-” he starts, gives up, walks away to the sound of Bucky laughing.

“Hey, thanks for the present, Wilson!” Bucky calls after him, “it’s real nice, I’m gonna treasure it!” and okay, yep, yeah, Bucky won that one alright. The worst thing is, he wasn’t wrong. It _was_ expensive.

The _worst_ worst thing, Sam thinks bleakly that night, is he can’t stop thinking about Bucky wearing the collar and nothing else, the leather supple and warm from his skin. Sam is fucked, he’s so fucked, and knowing that fact doesn’t make it any less terrible when he jerks off thinking about Bucky’s throat and his flannel fucking shirt and the way he’d grinned, sharp, all amused bright eyes and challenge.

 

Bucky wears the collar the next day, and the next, and he must be messing with Sam, he _must_ , except he doesn’t even seem to acknowledge it. It’s just _there_ , a flash of black leather sometimes visible under his shirt collar, and Sam’s simultaneously confused and horribly aroused. Why is he doing this. He already won the joke, this is just _cruel_.

“Hey, Bucky,” Nat asks the next time she’s over. Her voice is very casual and she’s cradling a cup of peppermint tea in her hands, looking off into the middle distance, and Sam’s learned that all of these things mean Nat _really cares_ about the answer she’s about to get. “What’s with the collar, huh? You into some kinky stuff with Rogers?”

Steve spits out his whole mouthful of tea. Sam has to bite his lip real hard.

“What?” Bucky asks, sounding distracted, and Natasha frowns.

“The _collar_ ,” she says, “you know what that’s about, right?”

“I… no?”

“Right, okay,” Nat says, “maybe, uh. Maybe look that up. In your own time.”

“It’s sure as shit not with _me_ ,” Steve says, scandalized, and Nat sweeps her gaze over him, raises an eyebrow.

“Surprised you know about it, given you’re so wholesome and all,” she shrugs, and Steve simultaneously frowns and blushes the way he always does.

“Whoa,” Bucky mutters, and he’s got his phone out, reading intently. Steve blushes harder, and Sam feels like maybe this is the worst backfired prank in the entire fucking universe because any minute now Barnes is gonna say _hey, Sam, why’d you buy me a BDSM collar, huh, you wanna do kinky shit with me or what_ , and it really was just a joke. A prank. A real badly-conceived joke, sure, but a joke nevertheless. He’s never going to admit to the other stuff, like how he suddenly finds it hotter than he’d ever imagined.

“I said in your own time,” Natasha sighs, but she’s grinning, and Bucky grins back.

“I just figured it was a good idea, was all,” he says. Flips the tag up out of his shirt collar so they can see. “In case I got lost. Guess I should reconsider, given, uh, the _implications_.” And then he looks over at Sam, smiles this crooked little smile, and Sam can’t figure out why he’s covering for Sam and not dropping him right in it, but he smiles back, involuntary. Watches Bucky’s eyes soften and his smile get bigger.

“I mean, that’s not a bad idea,” Steve says. “You could put em on a chain.”

“Like dog tags, huh,” Bucky says, deadpan, and Sam snorts with laughter.

 

Bucky bails him up in the kitchen a bit later, comes in near-silently, leans against the counter and watches Sam cook dinner. Sam glances at him once, twice, waits him out. Bucky’s stubbornly silent, and Sam pushes the chicken around the pan, tries not to get weird. He glances back again, notices Bucky’s shirt is unbuttoned, collar visible, and gets a surge of lust that’s stupid and stupidly unexpected. God, this was dumb. It’s come round to bite his ass in the worst way.

“It’s a pity,” Bucky says, touches his fingertips to the leather. “All that shit. What it means, wearing this. I like it.”

“Yeah?” Sam asks. Has to look away, stir the food. When he looks back, he can’t help but notice how the collar tightens as Bucky swallows.

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, “I do. And so do you.”

“I- what are-” _Fuck_ , Sam thinks. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Don’t even try,” Bucky says, amusement in his voice. “You know I can smell you, right?”

“What the fuck,” Sam says flatly. Bucky tilts his head.

“I can _smell_ you,” he says again, like it’s obvious. “You like it a lot. You like how it looks. It makes you want to touch.”

“Man, keep your weird wolf shit out of my business,” Sam tells him, and Bucky huffs a soft laugh.

“Whatever,” he shrugs. “You’re not saying you don’t, is all.” He rolls out his shoulders, and Sam can’t help it. Reaches out, hooks his finger into the collar the way he’s wanted to for days now. Doesn’t even brush Bucky’s skin, but Bucky’s pupils dilate anyway, eyes flooding black.

“Why do you like it?” he asks, curious. _Is it a sex thing_ , he wonders, and tugs, just a little. Bucky moves in closer willingly, and Sam thinks it before he can help it: _a dog on a lead_.

“Feels nice,” Bucky murmurs. “Feels… grounding, I guess. The weight of it. It’s comforting.” Okay, that’s reasonable, that’s _normal_ , that’s not a sex thing, Sam can work with that. And then Bucky glances at him through his eyelashes, chews his lip. “I like that you like it,” he says, low but clear. “I like the way you smell, when you like it. It’s good. Hot.” Oh _fuck_ , it _is_ a sex thing, probably Sam smells like that right now. He’s half-hard just from seeing how loose and easy and compliant Bucky got as soon as Sam pulled him in. He lets go of the collar, lets himself trace a fingertip light over Bucky’s throat. Watches as Bucky blinks very slowly.

“You want me to go buy you a chain for this instead?” he asks, taps his finger on the tag. Bucky gives him a heavy-lidded gaze, all heat and challenge, and Sam’s really deep in this confused arousal right now, because this is _Barnes_ , Bucky Barnes, with his terrible stubble and long hair and weird wolf issues, and Sam’s pretty sure he wants to kiss him, and also pretty sure he’s not sure about anything at all right now.

“Yeah,” Bucky says, after a long pause. “Sure.”

“Right,” Sam says, “okay, right, okay,” and drops his hand. Dumps the vegetables into the pan, and avoids looking at Bucky.

“Just don’t splash out on sterling silver,” Bucky says, “I got an allergy, right, that’d be awkward,” and then he’s leaving the room as quietly as he’d come in. _Fuck_ , Sam thinks again, and wonders how in hell he’s gonna clear his head.

 

Once he realizes he’s attracted to Bucky and Bucky can _tell_ , everything becomes, like, a thousand percent more difficult to negotiate. Sam’s just trying to live his life, that’s all, and he keeps getting confronted by Bucky Barnes in a soft flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up, hair all soft and shiny. Bucky starts wearing a hairtie on one wrist so he can pull his hair back into a bun when he needs to, and the first time Sam sees him do it he basically drops everything he’s holding, because holy _shit_. Bucky glances over at him and smirks, and this is really very embarrassing, how Sam can’t hide his attraction even if he keeps a totally straight face.

Bucky keeps doing terrible things like _baking bread_ , forearms dusted with flour and muscles flexing as he kneads the dough. He’s wearing a soft grey sweater which clings tight across his shoulders, and they’re so broad, it’s ridiculous, Sam entirely can’t handle this. He can’t help it, just leans in the kitchen doorway and watches for a good five minutes before Bucky breathes in and says, laughingly, “I know you’re there.”

“I know you know,” Sam shrugs, “doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy the view.” There’s flour in Bucky’s _hair_ , for shit’s sake, and he turns to grin at Sam, showing all his teeth, and Sam just flat-out wants to climb him like a tree. The feeling doesn’t go away when they’re eating bread warm from the oven, thick with butter and honey, and Bucky licks melted butter off his fingers like he’s trying to make Sam crazy.

Then there’s the time Sam gets home and discovers Bucky in the back yard, cutting wood like he knows what he’s doing, and come _on_ , he’s in plaid flannel with the sleeves rolled up and dog tags hanging out of his collar, it is _too fucking much_.

“Why,” Sam says, “why, Barnes. How many flannel shirts do you even fucking own. What are you doing.” Bucky looks up, wipes sweat out of his eyes with the back of his hand. His shirt is damp, sticking to his chest, and his hair is hanging in wavy strands around his face, and Sam can’t tell if he looks intolerably like a hipster lumberjack or just _intolerable_ , even as he feels all his higher brain function strip away at the sight of Bucky Barnes sweating and pleased with himself.

“I’m making a coffee table,” he says, “we don’t have one and it’s driving me nuts. Do you know how much they cost in the fucking store, Wilson?”

“A _coffee table_ ,” Sam repeats flatly, and Bucky nods.

“Yeah,” he says, “that’s right. Hey, you wanna get me a drink? I’m covered in sawdust, is all. Don’t want to track it through the house if I don’t have to.” Sam gets him a beer, and then, because fuck it, he grabs one for himself too, sits on the stoop and drinks it slowly.

“Since when do you know how to make furniture?” he asks, trying not to look at the way Bucky tilts his head back to take a long swallow of beer. Bucky shrugs.

“It’s easy,” he says, “you just cut shit up and put it together,” and then he sets his beer down, gets back to work. Sam watches, and Bucky laughs quietly, glances up at him from where he’s fitting the pieces into place. “You’re doing it again,” he says, and Sam frowns, tilts his head.

“Doing what?”

“Enjoying the view,” Bucky replies, and honestly, yeah, Sam’s just going with it at this point.

“It’s a free country,” he shrugs, and finishes his beer.

 

Seeing Bucky shirtless, it’s entirely by mistake. Sam’s just stumbled out of bed, pushes open the bathroom door while he’s still half-asleep, and by the time he realizes Bucky’s in there it’s too late.

“Oh, fuck,” he manages, “sorry, I- the door wasn’t locked.”

“It’s fine,” Bucky says, “I’m done, shower’s yours.” His hair is wet, he’s got a towel wrapped around his hips and there are droplets of water scattered across his chest and shoulders, and Sam doesn’t know whether he’s looking more at Bucky’s muscles, the gorgeous lean lines of his body, or the scars, twisted and knotted around his shoulder and arm and down his side. He blinks, realizes he’s staring, feels himself blush hotly.

“Sorry,” he says again, “ _fuck_ , I didn’t mean to be rude, I shouldn’t-”

“You can look,” Bucky says, “it doesn’t matter,” and he tilts his head, grins crookedly at Sam. “You wanna check me out, I don’t mind.” It makes Sam blush harder, and Bucky probably can’t see it but Sam knows he can _smell_ it, shit, and he raises his eyebrow, tries to play it cool even though it’s a pointless exercise.

“Never knew you were so built, is all.”

“Oh, sure,” Bucky says. “I could probably bench you, Wilson. Perks of bein’ what I am.” He flexes his bicep, just a little, looks down and bites his lip. “Pity about the mess, or I’d get a job as a fitness model for sure, right?”

“I never-” Sam starts, pauses. He doesn’t know how to ask in a way that’s not too personal, except that Bucky’s looking at him like he wants to know, so. “I didn't know you got hurt so bad.”

"When you first get turned, it's violent," Bucky shrugs, but he's obviously uncomfortable, flinching like Sam will think it's ugly. Sam sucks in a breath, thinks about Bucky’s body tearing itself apart, knitting back together. He reaches out, touches Bucky gently on the forearm. Not touching his scars, not without permission. “You can,” Bucky whispers, real quiet, “it's just, nobody’s ever-” and Sam slides his hand up, traces the pads of his fingers very gently over the raised skin. Bucky’s eyes flutter closed, and Sam trails his fingers over the curve of his shoulder, the muscle and bone and scarring, the outline of what’s so very clearly a bite right in the meat of his trapezius. Bucky’s holding himself very still, holding his breath like he’s afraid to breathe, and Sam brings his other hand up, sets it on Bucky’s other shoulder, presses his thumbs into the dip under Bucky’s collarbones. Drags his palms slowly down Bucky’s chest, his stomach, and feels how hard the muscle is. There are no scars here, just smooth skin, winter-pale, and Bucky is warm under his hands. He reaches Bucky’s hips, the heels of his hands resting on hipbone and fingers settling into the grooves of muscle there, and leaves his hands where they are, holds Bucky in place. Listens to him breathing fast. His eyes are still closed and he’s swallowing, shivering a little, and Sam wants real badly to lean in and brush his lips over Bucky’s scars too, kiss his way along his collarbone until he reaches the hollow of his throat.

“Nobody’s ever?” he asks, soft and quiet, and Bucky opens his eyes, licks his lips.

“Touched,” he says, and his voice is low. “Not since I changed.”

“Bucky-” Sam starts, and he knows he’s gonna kiss him, he can’t stop looking at Bucky’s mouth and he’s pulling him in by the hips and time is slowing down around them until Sam feels like he’s hyperfocused on Bucky’s lips, the way his skin feels under Sam’s hands, the soft little sigh he makes when Sam strokes his thumb lightly against Bucky’s hipbone. And then Steve barrels into the bathroom all exuberant morning energy, fresh from his fifteen mile run. They spring apart, Bucky going scarlet, and the moment’s lost. Bucky disappears into his bedroom, comes out fully-dressed, won’t even look at Sam the rest of the day.

 

Sam thinks Bucky's just embarrassed about being busted in on by Steve, or something, but he doesn't meet Sam's gaze for days, doesn't make bird jokes or smirk knowingly when Sam unsubtly checks him out, avoids being in the same room when it's just the two of them. After three days, it's weird. After a week, Sam's worried.

“Have I done something wrong?” he asks bluntly, standing in the doorway of Bucky's bedroom, and Bucky looks up like he's startled.

“What? No. It's fine.”

“It's _not_ fine,” Sam says. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah, I- okay, fine. Close the door.” Sam does, sits down at the end of the bed. Looks at Bucky looking down at his hands.

“Come on,” he says, “what's going on. I was gonna kiss you, you must know that, and now you're all… We're…” He waves his hand to indicate the space between them, and Bucky sighs, tucks his hair behind his ears. “Is it Steve? The whole thing with him interrupting?” Bucky shakes his head, looking mutely upset, but fuck, Sam's gotta know, this is killing him. “Are you not- I mean, that's super embarrassing if you're not into me, man, but in my defence you did say you liked it that one time.” Bucky bites his lip, frowns at Sam.

“No, of course I like it, _Christ._ Of course I do. I mean, fuck, Sam, you're- I wanted you to kiss me. I _want_ you to kiss me.”

“Then what's going on, huh, because I'm getting some real mixed messages here.”

“I'm not _right_ , okay,” Bucky says. “You know what I am. And you're so difficult to deal with because you don't look at me that way, you- people who know what I am, Sam, I smile at them and they look at my teeth like I'm gonna bite.”

“That's stupid,” Sam sighs, “ _they're_ stupid, Bucky, come on, I know you're not gonna bite me.”

“But _I_ don't know that,” Bucky snaps. “Jesus, I'm not- it's not like this is brainwashing I can get programmed out of. I'm always gonna be like this. I'm not even human anymore, I'm not a soldier, I’m a goddamn monster, okay. I'm always gonna be a monster, there's no fucking cure. It's not like I'm _Bucky_ one time and _the Wolf_ the other, I'm _always both_. Even when I don't look like it. Even when I look safe.”

“I know,” Sam says. “I know. I know what you are.”

“Do you?” Bucky asks, and when he looks up, his eyes are real clear and blue, and Sam thinks about a monster too beautiful to be real. “I'm sorry,” Bucky says. “I can't. Sam, I can't, you gotta-”

“Yeah,” Sam says, “okay,” because arguing with someone about their autonomy to make that decision is not a thing he's gonna do now or ever, but fuck does it sting. “Hey,” he adds, “we're still good, right? We still… I can move out, if that makes it easier.”

“ _No_ ,” Bucky says, urgent, and reaches out, grabs Sam's wrist. “Don't. Please. I mean, if you want to, but I…”

“I'm not going anywhere,” Sam tells him, and Bucky sighs like he's relieved.

“I'm sorry,” he says again, “I really wanted…” and Sam just nods, because, yeah.

 

It's a little awkward after that. A lot awkward, even. Sam says something dumb about dogs, and Bucky grins at him all crooked and sharp, and Sam's heart spikes so hard Bucky goes red just from whatever Sam's throwing off right now. Bucky collapses onto the couch, and Sam starts petting his hair without really thinking about it, and Bucky growls a little in the way Sam recognizes now as pleasure, butts up against Sam's hand, nuzzles his face into Sam's thigh before he catches himself. Sam gets back in from a run, stands in the kitchen breathing hard and pouring himself a glass of iced tea, and Bucky appears in the doorway with an expression that absolutely and unmistakably says _can I slam you up against the nearest wall right now_. Sam makes eye contact, and then has to look away, because holy _god_ Bucky’s face is too, too good.

When Sam goes downstairs the next full moon, Bucky holds himself very still, eyes closed and breathing shallowly, and as soon as the restraints are off, he sits up, tries to stand.

“Come on,” Sam sighs, “don’t-” and catches Bucky around the shoulders as he inevitably starts to fall. “You’re fine, Bucky, come on,” he says again, guides him down to the bed, sits down and pulls him in, and Bucky resists for a moment.

“I shouldn’t,” he says, “it’s asking too much,” and Sam looks at him seriously.

“Will it help?”

“It always helps,” Bucky admits, “fuck, it’s like- I dunno, pack instinct or something. Maybe I fucking imprinted on you, I dunno. But Christ, Sam, I can’t ask you to, that’s not fair-”

“Come _here_ ,” Sam says, and Bucky curls in against him. And yeah, it’s hard, it _fucking sucks_ that Sam can touch him like this and knows he shouldn’t want more, but the way Bucky sighs and goes limp into the circle of Sam’s arms like he’s such a relief, Sam’s never gonna not give this.

They settle back into a rhythm of sorts, dumb banter and sly quips and sharp grins, Sam’s hands on Bucky’s hair and Bucky breathing him in, and it’d be intolerable except for how Sam can see Bucky aches with it just as much as he does, how they’re both _wanting_ and not having and how he’s so fucking _scared_. It’s heavy and soft all at once, and Sam knows Steve’s confused by it, concerned like maybe he should say something. Sam doesn’t want him to say a fucking thing. They know where they’re at. It seems like it might, almost, have levelled out, finally. And then Sam’s just _picking up groceries_ , for shits sake, and someone gets the drop on him. Hits him very hard, bundles him into a black SUV, and Sam thinks, oh _shit._

 

When he comes to, he knows it’s not good. He’s got the muzzy feeling of being hit too hard in the head, the kind of concussion that’s probably gonna have him throwing up if any bright lights happen in his vicinity any time soon. His shoulders ache with the strain of his arms being pulled back, tied to the chair. His mouth is horribly dry.

“He’s awake,” someone says, and Sam takes a breath, blinks and tries to focus. This could be bad. This could be real bad.

“Guess it’s too much to ask for a glass of water?” he says, and gets backhanded across the mouth. His lip splits open, stings hard, and Sam licks at it, dry. Winces. “Okay, okay, no water, got it.”

“Where’s the Asset,” they demand.

“What the fuck’s the _Asset_ ,” Sam says, and gets hit again.

“The Wolf,” they say. “We know you know. Where is our _Wolf_?” and Sam starts laughing, can’t help it, because Hydra have got him, sure, they’ve got him in a bad spot alright, but holy shit they are stupid. They hit him again, an open-handed slap he hardly feels he’s laughing so hard, and he grins up at them, rolls his eyes.

“You kidnapped me thinking I’d tell you where he is,” he gets out, “man, _fuck_ , I can’t believe you’re that dumb. You think I’m gonna lead you to him? You think I’d give him up?” _You think I’m not leading him straight to you_ , he thinks, and hopes like hell that Bucky gets here soon. _Fuck_ , his head hurts.  

 

He hears Bucky coming before he sees him. A long, low growl from outside, and then a scream, cut short. The guards look at each other uneasily, unholster their guns.

“You got silver bullets?” Sam asks, like a smart ass, and one of the guards frowns at him, steps forward, hand raised. It’s the guy who hit Sam before, Sam thinks, and makes a mental note to tell Bucky, because he’s pretty sure he wants this guy to die first.

They don’t have silver bullets. Sam marvels at their fucking idiocy, honestly, and they’ve also got _fucking terrible aim_ , because none of their shots actually hit Bucky. It might have something to do with the fact that he’s lethally fast and light on his feet, streaked with blood, fights all teeth and nails. He’s still _Bucky_ , hasn’t changed, but Sam watches the way he moves, and sees more of the wolf than usual, right now.

“You fucking _dared_ ,” Bucky growls when he reaches the guy who’s been roughing Sam up, and Sam blinks, because holy shit, turns out he didn’t need to say a word, Bucky’s smelled it right on him. And then the guy tries to slash at Bucky with a knife, and Bucky growls again, a sound that shivers all the way down Sam’s spine. Sam’s still hazy, dizzy with this fucking concussion, and he doesn’t catch the moment Bucky tears the guy’s throat out with his teeth. Just hears the noise, the scream and gurgle, and when he blinks awake again Bucky’s on his knees in front of him, face and shirt drenched with blood, teeth scarlet with it. He’s touching Sam very, very cautiously.

“Sam,” he whispers, “Jesus, sweetheart, don’t look at me, I- are you okay? I got here in time?”

“My head hurts,” Sam manages, and Bucky touches his forehead with gentle fingers like he’s checking the bump.

“I think you’re gonna be okay,” he says, “I’m gonna untie you, okay?” He grabs the knife from the floor, cuts through the ropes around Sam’s wrists and ankles, and Sam tries to move but can’t. His arms are numb, the circulation’s been cut off for too long, and he groans a little.

“ _Ow_ ,” he gets out, “this is extremely embarrassing, fuck, ow,” and Bucky makes a soft noise. Reaches for Sam very tentatively like he’s expecting Sam to flinch away from him. “Why’re you-” Sam says, “why are you being so… I’m not scared of you, Barnes, you _know_ that.”

“I just tore fifteen people to pieces trying to get to you,” Bucky says, jaw clenching, “I’m not even… I didn’t even change and I still did it, fuck, you _should_ be scared,” and Sam shrugs.

“You saved my life,” he says, “and I was gonna tell you to go for that guy first, anyway, he was an ass.” _You called me sweetheart_ , he thinks, _I've fallen asleep with you in my arms for the last five months in a row,_ _you're touching me so soft, how could I be afraid of what you are._ He tries to stand up, feels his knees buckle, and Bucky catches him, grimaces at the way he leaves smears of blood on Sam’s shirt.

“Hold on,” he mutters. Puts Sam back in the chair, takes off his shirt and wipes his face to get the worst of it off, considers the flannel for a moment before dropping it on the floor. “Ugh, that was one of my favorite shirts,” he says, stooping down again, and then he’s picking Sam up, one arm tucked under the crook of Sam’s knees, the other around his back. Sam gets one arm slung up around Bucky’s neck, frowns at him as much as he can.

“Don’t get any ideas about this,” he says, voice slurring, “the whole damsel in distress thing. You gotta buy me dinner first, Barnes. I’m not a cheap date.”

“Yeah, sure, dinner and a movie at least,” Bucky says like Sam’s making any sense at all, and Sam drops his head down, presses his face in against Bucky’s shoulder. He still smells of blood, copper-sharp, but under that is _Bucky_ , the musky-clean smell of his skin and sweat, and even as Sam should be embarrassed about this whole situation he can’t help but think _holy fuck, I want to push him down into a mattress right now_. Maybe that’s the concussion talking.

“I’ll buy you a new shirt,” he says, and passes out again, which is one hundred percent a better option than throwing up with how much his head hurts.

 

When they get inside, Bucky sets him down on a bed, and Sam has to blink a few times. The room is unfamiliar, dimly lit like Bucky knows Sam’s eyes won’t handle bright light, and he’s not sure where they are.

“Safe house?” he asks, even though it looks more like a cheap motel, and Bucky nods.

“I’m gonna go get a washcloth,” he says, “and the first aid kit. You need anything? Some water?”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, and Bucky holds a water bottle to his mouth, helps him take little sips until Sam’s throat doesn’t feel cracked and dry with thirst. Then he disappears into what must be the bathroom, and Sam hears water running. When Bucky comes back out he’s obviously washed his face, scrubbed away more of the bloodstains, but his hair is still matted with it. It should be terrible. It’s really not.

The washcloth feels amazing. The painkillers feel even better. Bucky checks him over very carefully, gets him into clean clothes that are soft and loose and warm, and once he’s satisfied Sam’s not on death’s door he nods, stands up, starts pacing the room like he’s still full of tense energy. Sam watches him for a minute, holds back from cracking a joke, because this is Bucky in instinctual protective mode, maybe, and Sam doesn’t want to make fun of that, but it’s putting him on edge.

“Bucky,” Sam says. “ _Bucky_. You’re making me dizzy here. Why don’t you go shower? I’ll be fine.” Bucky looks at him for a minute like he’s assessing, and then he nods shortly, disappears into the bathroom, starts the shower. He doesn’t take long, but Sam’s almost asleep when he comes back out, wearing a clean t-shirt and sweatpants and towelling water out of his hair.

“Thanks,” he says, voice low. “For suggesting that. I. Yeah. Thanks.” And then he sits down in the chair opposite the bed, shoulders square and back straight, like he’s going to keep watch all night. Sam tries really hard not to think too much about the words _guard dog_ , but he’s fuzzy with pain drugs and the lingering edges of being knocked on the head, and it’s tough to keep a straight chain of thought.

“You planning to sit there all night?” Sam asks, and Bucky flicks his attention to him, nods shortly. “Come on, you gotta be exhausted, come lie down. We’re safe here, right. You need to rest.” Bucky looks torn, and Sam shifts over a little to make room, watches Bucky slowly come to a decision.

“Okay,” he says, like he’s giving in. Makes to stretch out on top of the covers, and Sam rolls his eyes, pulls back the comforter. Bucky’s mouth twitches. “Still haven’t bought you dinner,” he mutters, and Sam dissolves into laughter even though his head aches with it.

“Let’s call it a raincheck,” he suggests, “I’m not exactly gonna be at my best, if you’re expecting, uh…”

“Right,” Bucky agrees, “right,” and slides in, spoons up behind Sam and presses his nose against the nape of his neck, breathes him in.

“Is this that instinct thing again?” Sam asks, dry, and feels Bucky nod. “You gotta keep me safe or something?”

“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs, sounding drowsy. “Or something.”

“So if I let you cuddle me, that’ll soothe your protective alpha ass?”

“You like it,” Bucky says, pressing in even closer, wrapping an arm around Sam’s ribs. “I can smell it on you,” and hell, he probably can. Sam’s very content right now, Bucky’s warmth radiating into his back, and it’s too easy to let himself drift into sleep.

 

When he wakes up the next morning, he’s feeling a hell of a lot better, not so groggy, except he’s thirsty as fuck, mouth dry and cottony. Bucky’s still curled in against him, face nuzzled against Sam’s neck, and when Sam tries to reach for the water bottle on the bedside table Bucky moans a little in his sleep, pushes in closer and tightens his grip like Sam might go somewhere. His breath is hot and damp on Sam’s skin, and his lips are just barely brushing him, and Sam abruptly thinks, _holy shit, this is the most arousing thing I have ever experienced in my whole life._ He’s still thirsty, though, so he stretches out just a little more, grabs the water and drinks half the thing in one go, and when he flops back down, glances over, Bucky’s got his eyes open and he’s watching Sam, sleepy and interested.

“Water?” Sam asks, and Bucky nods, takes the bottle from him, drinks a couple mouthfuls before passing it back. Sam sets it back on the bedside table, rolls over, lets Bucky pull him in and burrow down into the covers until Bucky’s mouth is pressed up against Sam’s throat. Bucky’s hair is tickling his face a little, hot puffs of breath on Sam’s neck making him shiver, and Sam lifts a hand up to Bucky’s hair, begins to pet it gently.

“Hmmm,” Bucky hums, “keep doing that, feels nice,” and rests his hand on Sam’s hip, slides it up a little until his fingers are brushing Sam’s skin.

“Thanks for rescuing me,” Sam murmurs, and Bucky makes a noise of agreement, mouths wordlessly at Sam’s throat. Yesterday Bucky sank his teeth into a man’s throat and tore it out, and now his lips are so soft they flutter over Sam’s skin, and Sam thinks right now he’d tilt his head back, bare his throat for Bucky’s teeth. “You track me by scent?”

“They were idiots,” Bucky mutters, “they didn’t know what the fuck they were doing.”

“That is true,” Sam agrees, “they didn’t even have silver bullets,” and Bucky laughs softly like he can’t believe their general incompetence.

“It hardly took me ten minutes to take em out,” he says, “Hydra’s really gone downhill as an organization, huh.”

“They wanted you,” Sam tells him, and Bucky shrugs like it’s not important.

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, “I’m just sorry they hurt you to get to me,” and then he’s wriggling up so he can rest his head on the pillow across from Sam, staring right at him. “You’re really okay?”

“I’m fine,” Sam says, “I’m so fine,” and thinks, _please don’t pull away again, I can’t take it, I want you so much_. Feels Bucky tighten his grip on Sam’s hip like maybe he understands. He smiles, can’t not, and hisses when his lip splits open again. Feels the sharp wetness of blood. Bucky’s eyes go wide, and then he’s leaning in, quick and sudden, drags his tongue over the spot. Pulls back as soon as he realizes he’s doing it, eyes even wider.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he says, “oh my god, Sam, sorry, _sorry_ ,” and Sam’s still stuck on _Bucky’s tongue on his lip_ , and how much he wants more of it.

“Do it again,” he says, “go on, you want to, right?” and Bucky pauses, gives him a careful look.

“You want me to,” he whispers, disbelieving, and Sam nods, tongues at his lip, gives Bucky a challenging look.

“Can’t you tell?” he asks, and Bucky breathes in, chews his own lip, eyes going dark.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, and leans back in, licks at Sam’s lip, sucks it into his mouth a little. It stings and it feels spectacular and Sam holds still, waits and waits, and then licks back into Bucky’s mouth, turns it into a kiss that’s long and slow and wet. Holy _shit_ it’s good, it’s so good, he bites at Bucky’s lip just to hear him moan, gets his hand on Bucky’s side and pushes his shirt up. Bucky kisses him like he must have wanted to for months and months, his mouth hot and teeth sharp and god, _fuck_ , it’s good, it’s everything Sam’s been waiting for. He gasps for breath, presses into it, kisses that go languid and then desperate and then slow again like neither of them can figure out the tempo, stuttering in slow-motion and fast-forward.

“I want to touch you,” he tells Bucky, “can I?” and Bucky hesitates like he’s not sure. “We don’t have to,” Sam adds, “we can just keep doing this, if you want,” and Bucky actually growls low in his throat, grabs Sam’s ass and pulls him in, grinds their hips together, and _oh_ , fuck, _fuck_ , that’s Bucky’s dick alright, about as hard as Sam’s is right now.

“I _want_ ,” Bucky gets out, “I just don’t know if it-”

“Hey, I trust you,” Sam says. “I trust that you’re safe, that _I’m_ safe around you. I just really wanna get my hand on your dick, okay.”

“Yeah,” Bucky breathes. Kisses Sam again, and slides his hand down inside Sam’s sweatpants, strokes Sam’s dick. His hands are surprisingly delicate but he’s got calluses on his fingers that catch just enough to be _fucking amazing_ , and Sam can’t help it, he moans loud, thrusts into Bucky’s hand. Shoves his own hand down Bucky’s pants, wraps his fingers around Bucky’s dick, and the noise Bucky makes is incredible. He’s thick, silken-hard and slickly wet at the head, and Sam rubs his thumb into it real slowly, leans in so he can breathe against Bucky’s mouth and swallow all the noises he’s making.

“Feel good?”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Bucky whispers, “fuck, Sam, you- you gotta know, right, you gotta _know_ ,” and Sam kisses and kisses him.

“I touched myself thinking about you,” he confesses, watches Bucky’s eyes get huge, dark and full of heat and hunger. “Thinking about your stupid flannel shirts, your throat, fuck, the way you _smile_ ,” and Bucky chokes a little, closes his eyes and then drags them open again, a sweep of lashes so long that Sam feels like he should be able to feel the breeze fluttering on his face.

“You smell so good,” Bucky tells him, “you smell so _fucking good_ ,” and then he’s got his face buried in the curve of Sam’s neck again, licking the sweat from his skin, and Sam feels Bucky’s dick twitch and pulse in his hand.

“Gonna come, baby?” he asks, and squeezes, and that’s it, Bucky’s gone, spilling hot and wet into Sam’s hand. His teeth graze Sam’s throat just enough, not sharp but a promise they _could_ be sharp, and Sam goes hot all over and cries out and comes so hard it hurts a little.

“ _Jesus_ ,” Bucky mutters, still nuzzling at Sam’s skin. “Holy god, darlin’. That- _god_.”

“Tell me this is a thing now,” Sam says, “god, Bucky, _tell_ me this is a thing.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, shaky. “Yeah, Sam. Sweetheart. This is a thing, alright.”

“Okay,” Sam whispers. He’s still got Bucky’s dick in his hand, for fuck’s sake, but he suddenly feels so tender he can hardly stand it. “Okay. Good.” Bucky laughs then, just softly. Lifts his hand up to his mouth, licks Sam's come off his palm, and Sam burns just watching it. “You’re about that, huh? Sweat and blood and come?”

“You taste good,” Bucky shrugs. “I just wanna get my mouth on you all the damn time.”

“Believe me,” Sam tells him, “I’m really, really not complaining.” Wipes his hand off on Bucky’s sweatpants, pulls him in as close as he can get. He just wants to spend the whole day in bed. Maybe the whole week. Maybe the rest of the year, fuck, he doesn’t know. Bucky’s very warm, and Sam’s very happy, and they’ve just- they’ve got a lot of pining to make up for, is all.

 

The first time they fuck for real, Bucky insists on safety measures.

“You know we're safe,” Sam tells him, but he gets it. Bucky needs to know they're safe, and this is the best way for him to be really, properly sure. It's just- honestly, it's just that every time Sam thinks about it, his brain shuts down a little at the idea.

“Hey, you're the one who gave me a kinky BDSM collar,” Bucky teases, and Sam rolls his eyes.

“You know that was a joke,” he says, rolls over to kiss Bucky's shoulder, and then blinks, because Bucky's got the collar in his hands and he's looking real hopeful.

“I know it was a joke,” Bucky agrees, “but you think we could…”

“Yeah,” Sam breathes, “yeah, okay, yes,” and Bucky offers it to him, tilts his head back so the line of his throat is bared. Lord Jesus he looks so good. Sam's hands shake a little as he buckles it in place, and Bucky makes a long low sound, humming in satisfaction. “Growling already, huh?” Sam asks, and strokes his throat, hooks his fingers into the collar and grabs Bucky's hair with his other hand. Bucky _moans_ , loud and breathy, and holy shit Sam is gonna come in his pants before he even gets anywhere near Bucky's ass if Bucky keeps this up.

“I _told_ you it feels good,” Bucky tells him, like maybe Sam didn’t believe him, and Sam touches his throat again, wraps his palm around it just under the collar, pushes him down into the mattress and holds him there. Bucky’s breathing hard, and Sam doesn’t know what he loves more, the way Bucky loves this or the way he’s letting it happen, letting Sam hold him down as if he couldn’t throw him off in the span of a second.

“You want me to?” he asks, and Bucky wriggles a little like he’s excited.

“ _Yes_ , I want you to,” he says, impatient and faux-frustrated, or maybe really frustrated, so Sam throws a leg up over his waist, straddles him, leans up and gets his left wrist in the restraints, tightens it until it’s secure.

“What’re you gonna think about next month when Steve does this for you, huh,” he says, and Bucky rolls his eyes.

“There’s no way in the world Steve’s ever doing this for me again, pal,” he mutters, “you’re on it now, I’d crack a boner and Steve and me, we’d both die of mutual embarrassment no matter how much serum we’ve got in our veins.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam agrees, getting his right wrist secured, and then he sits back, riding Bucky’s hips and looking at him with not a little satisfaction. He’s spread out for Sam, all hot skin and taut muscle, and Sam wants him so much he can hardly breathe with it.

“You gonna fuck me or what?” Bucky asks, voice already a little ragged, and Sam laughs.

“Maybe I’ll just look at you,” he teases, “maybe I’ll just jerk myself off all over you, make you lie here covered in it like you can’t do anything at all except watch,” and predictably, Bucky growls.

“Sam,” he whines, “sweetheart, _please_ ,” and Sam leans down, kisses him real slow.

“I got you,” he whispers against Bucky’s mouth, “don’t worry, I got you,” and then slides down, mouths wetly at the tip of Bucky’s dick just to hear him whine again soft in the back of his throat. Pushes his thighs apart, and settles in between them, kisses the soft skin of Bucky’s inner thigh, bites at it just a little so he can feel Bucky go tense and wanting.

The first press of his fingers, slick with lube, he sucks Bucky’s dick all the way down at the same time, and Bucky honest to god howls like it’s too fucking good to handle. Sam pushes in and in, slow and relentless, one finger and then two and then three, and Bucky goes so beautifully slack Sam just watches him for a bit, stroking in and out very slowly and dragging his fingertips over Bucky’s prostate, watching all his muscles play under his skin.

“Holy _fuck_ ,” Bucky slurs, “holy goddamn Christing _fuck_ , Sam,” and Sam presses harder, sees Bucky’s dick well up with beads of pre-come. Leans in to lick them away, and Bucky sobs a little under his breath.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” Sam tells him, “fuck, Bucky, baby, you’re so _fucking_ pretty.”

“Please,” Bucky says, “please, Sam, I want- will you, _please_ ,” and he begs so nice Sam can’t say no. Has never been able to say no, not really, and so he pulls his fingers out, reaches for a condom. “Can you-” Bucky starts, and blushes bright red, and yeah, Sam can, they’re both tested and it’s not like they’re doing this with anyone else.

“You wanna feel me in you?”

“I want your come dripping out of me for hours,” Bucky says, “I wanna smell you on me, Sam, wanna feel you mark me like I’m yours, I just, I _want_ , god,” and Sam’s going to have to finger him for three quarters of an hour like this more often if this is what happens, all Bucky’s filter just straight-up gone out the goddamn window.

When he pushes in, he does it slow so Bucky can feel the thick drag of his head, the stretch and catch of it, and he’s suddenly got to sink his teeth into his lip so he doesn’t just come right on the spot.

“Feel so good,” Bucky tells him, earnest, eyes bright and cheeks flushed, “you feel _so good_ ,” and Sam hums in agreement, thrusts slow and easy.

“Hey, what’d happen if you bit me right now? Would I change?”

“Nah,” Bucky says, lazy. Rolls his hips under Sam like he's just testing what Sam will do. “I gotta be the wolf when I do that for anything to happen.”

“Right,” Sam says, “okay,” and thinks about Bucky’s teeth on his throat, just the edge of pain. The kind of mark he can press his fingers to afterwards, maybe. Thrusts in again, so slow it aches.

“Sam,” Bucky gasps, hands flexing and unflexing into fists where he’s still strapped down, “this is good, this is real fucking good, but would you just fucking _fuck me_ already?” and Sam raises his eyebrows, grabs Bucky by the collar.

“You’re so impatient,” he tells him, and Bucky nods, mouth open and wet.

“I am,” he agrees, “I am, I am, but god, Sam, come _on_ ,” and Sam shoves harder, faster.

“Like that?”

“Yes,” Bucky agrees, “more, please, _more_ , fucking hell,” and that’s it, Sam’s digging his nails into Bucky’s chest, scratching hard enough to see welts, and Bucky’s eyes roll back in his head. “Yeah,” he gasps, “god, yes, yeah, more,” and they’re both all about that edge, maybe. Just sometimes, just when it’s the two of them, just when Sam can wreck Bucky until he’s shuddering and crying and begging for more, more, more.

Bucky comes first, just like Sam wants. It almost hurts to hold himself back, but he wants Bucky to come apart, to shake and tremble and come all over his stomach and chest just from how Sam’s fucking him, and once he’s come he’s boneless, desperate, oversensitive. Sam just keeps going, rolls into him in long strokes that has Bucky's breath hitching and sobbing, and he can feel it building, can feel himself coming up to the edge. Presses in, closes his hands over Bucky’s wrists and puts all his weight into holding him down.

“Bite me,” he says, “come on, baby, get your teeth on me, I want to feel it.” _I want to come with your teeth on my skin_ , he thinks, and Bucky makes this noise like he’s dying a little before he stretches up, licks at Sam’s throat and then bites just like Sam wants, teeth sinking in and bruising, marking, sharp and hot and so _fucking incredible_ Sam comes shouting loud enough Steve can probably hear it from two floors away.

“Holy shit,” Bucky murmurs after, and Sam’s collapsed right across him, he’d worry about crushing him if he didn’t know how built Bucky’s fucking chest is.

“Yeah,” he agrees, trying to catch his breath. “Holy _shit_.”

“I didn’t break the skin,” Bucky says, nosing at Sam’s throat, but he licks over it anyway, and Sam feels it sting.

“Keep doing that,” he says sleepily. “Feels good.”

“Undo me and I’ll make you feel better,” Bucky suggests, and Sam reaches up, flicks the restraints open. He can hardly move, feels sated and heavy, and then Bucky rolls out from under him, pushes Sam gently down into the mattress, kisses all the way down his spine and pushes his thighs apart so he can settle in between Sam’s legs.

“Can’t,” Sam mutters, even as Bucky kisses his ass, the crease at the top of his thigh, spreads him apart. “I’m done. I’m _oh fuck_ I’m dead.”

“Nah, baby,” Bucky laughs, and licks into him again. Sam groans.

“You’re gonna kill me,” he says, “fuuuuuck, you’re gonna-” but he’s pushing back into it, Bucky’s filthy fucking mouth, and if this is how he goes, he really doesn’t mind at all.

 

The next morning, neither of them get up until late. They drag themselves into the shower, eventually, and then into the kitchen to make breakfast, because it turns out marathon sex leaves them both starving. Steve's sitting at the kitchen table reading the paper, and when he looks up, he just glances from Bucky to Sam and back again, narrows his eyes at the stupidly obvious teeth marks on Sam’s throat, goes bright red and lifts the paper back up.

“Good night, huh,” he says from behind it, and Bucky snorts.

“Yeah, pal, you’re damn right it was,” he agrees, because he’s got no fucking shame. Steve sighs like he’s put-upon. Sam briefly considers feeling sorry for him, and then shrugs it off, because whatever, Steve _wanted_ Sam and Bucky to get along, he should have thought about what it was he was hoping for.

“There’s waffle batter in the fridge,” Steve says, and Sam grins, flicks the waffle iron on to start heating. Bucky wraps his arms around him from behind, presses his face into Sam’s neck and then his cheek against Sam’s, and Steve sighs again.

“Have you _gotta_ ,” he asks, infinite patience with just a little frustration bleeding into it, “you’re basically _necking_ in the kitchen right now, it’s ten in the fucking morning.”

“We’re not necking,” Bucky says. Drags his cheek against Sam’s again, and Sam sighs, because he suspects that what Bucky’s actually doing is scent-marking him extremely thoroughly.

“It’s a wolf thing,” Sam tells Steve, and Steve lowers the paper, stares at him like he doesn’t really want to know. “Yeah, don’t ask.”

“It’s _instinct_ ,” Bucky says, “I can’t help it, right, I’m just a dumb wolf,” and then he grins, raises an eyebrow, and Sam smiles all too, too soft.

“Yeah,” he agrees, “yeah, I know what you are,” and watches how Bucky smiles, all blue eyes and sharp teeth and _beautiful_.

**Author's Note:**

> THE THING IS, right, all these pictures of sebstan during press for The Martian and Civil War, where he's all long hair and stubble and soft soft chambray, and he's just, like, SOFT WEREWOLF SEB STAN to the max. hence: Soft Werewolf Bucky Barnes.
> 
> anyway this was supposed to be, like, a 3k crackfic and then it turned serious, apparently I have a lot of feelings about the winter soldier as werewolf
> 
> come follow me [on tumblr](http://notcaycepollard.tumblr.com/) where I scream at sebstan's face forever in tags

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] you touch me within and so i (know i could be human once again)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10965126) by [PhagePods (DancingDragon42)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DancingDragon42/pseuds/PhagePods)




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